


Tangerine 'verse: Athos and the Butterflies

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Tangerine 'verse [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Police
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 09:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8618587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: After Tangerine Days, a short story set in the same universe. They deal with two cases, Athos learns more about his abilities.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much again to the ever lovely Vatican-Cameos (on Tumblr), who has been an absolute angel and beta'ed this one for me too.

Since the absolute chaos of d’Artagnan’s apprenticeship with the Musketeers, Porthos has had a couple of unexpected, and unexplained, days off most weeks. Athos fills in the forms for sick leave, signs them, processes them and pretends Porthos has a migraine, or a stomach ache, or anything that pops into Athos' head when Aramis asks ‘What this time?’. Really, though, Athos has no clue. He has a suspicion, niggling somewhere irritable and spiky in him, that Porthos is taking advantage of them both covering for him, and just skiving off. d’Artagnan’s off with Milady or Ninon most working hours, and they only see him once in a while, and with Porthos out, that leaves Athos and Aramis to share the office.

  
  


It’s not bad, really. Aramis spends a lot of time napping, playing computer games, reading what Athos is sure is fanfiction but Aramis claims is online research articles, or hanging out in the breakroom. When he’s not not-working, he’s usually sitting quietly and completing research for his PhD, or working on writing for it. No, the irritating bit of working with Aramis is the Fairies. Aramis' job description currently includes ‘re-negotiating a working relationship between the Fairies and the Metropolitan Police’. Which means he’s always poking around and nicking stuff that Athos leaves lying around. Pens, books, jumpers. He takes Porthos' hoodie, which Athos left on the windowsill so Porthos would sleep on it and make it soft and warm and smelling of him. Athos can’t even say anything, because at work he’s not a complete soppy mess, or weirdo who just wants things to smell of Porthos.

  
  


Another irritating thing since the d’Artagnan debacle is that blasted cat. When Porthos is in the office (which is rare, even when he does come to work he spends all his time doing actual work, which is something Athos and Aramis are very confused by. Traditionally, they all spend as little time on that as possible) the cat pads after him and is usually fairly docile. When he’s not, it prowls around hissing at people, running away and hiding, being skittish and, quite frankly, rude. Porthos says it’s traumatised. Athos thinks it just learnt bad manners from Thomas. Or the Gentleman who Thomas created by being a general fuck up and twat.

  
  


“Coffee,” Porthos grunts, on a Wednesday, setting a mug in front of Athos.

  
  


“What do I have to do in return for this?” Athos asks, inhaling the smell. It’s good coffee. Better coffee than Athos keeps at the office.

  
  


“Going home,” Porthos says, scowling down at Athos before turning on his heel, grabbing a jacket that Athos is sure belongs to him, not Porthos, and leaving the office again.

  
  


Aramis presses himself to the doorframe to let Porthos pass then wanders over, planting his butt on Athos' desk, swinging his leg, being all languid, sexy and annoying. Athos wonders who he’s got his eye on this week. Since his fling with Anne fell through, he’s returned to menacing the station with the makings of sexual harassment suits. Aramis says that actually he’s just being himself and women just like him. Athos scowls, catching Porthos' mood.

  
  


“Case?” Aramis asks.

  
  


“No,” Athos says. “Bertrand was in, wanting a consult, but it wasn’t anything that needed us so I sent him on his way. There’s a changeling case, I sent it d’Art and Ninon’s way, they can talk to the family and help them negotiate. I have some research to do for the Ghostbusters, they’re after a fragma-plasma, which is my area.”

  
  


“Where’d Porthos go? Someone want him?” Aramis asks. “Do I get a coffee?”

  
  


“No. This is mine. Porthos went home. I have no idea why. In fact, you do the fragma-plasma, I’ll go follow him. I want to know what he’s up to.”

  
  


“He won’t thank you. What am I doing?”

  
  


“They’ve got one haunting a church in Hackney, keeps turning up in the middle of sermons and interrupting to quote Paradise Lost. They want to know what it’s made up of, so they can take it apart and banish it,” Athos says, then passes across what Aramis needs: “Case file, tome of knowledge from Serge, recording of incident, Bible.”

  
  


“Bible?” Aramis questions.

  
  


“Bible,” Athos confirms. “Always useful if someone’s quoting Milton.”

  
  


Duty done, Athos signs himself and Porthos off sick, and exits the building. Porthos is fairly easy to find, if you’re Athos and happen to have a good idea where he might be headed. Which is his flat, in Hackney. Athos considers that, their luck being what it is, they’ll probably run into the fragma-plasma. First, though, he has to find the trouble magnet. Porthos' flat is empty, so Athos does a quick, systematic search for clues. He’s in the bedroom when the washing machine starts up. He goes to look around, but it’s probably just the Poltergeist.

  
  


Shirley’s always happy to see Porthos and manifests for them, she’s quite sociable. The 'Geist here is not, usually they just make enough trouble to be termed a 'Geist, then lives equably alongside them, just nicking apples from time to time, or writing silly messages on the mirror in the bathroom. The washing machine is a new thing. Athos has a look, but the machine’s empty. He pops down to the garage and has a look for Porthos' car, and pops the front to ask Jerry if he knows where Porthos is. Jerry, tucked out of sight under the engine workings, just clanks a few things around. Athos shuts the lid again and sticks his hands in his pockets, considering.

  
  


There’s a bump from the car, and a bit of paper floats out of the open from window, drifting to the ground. Athos picks it up and then grins, patting the car in thanks and heading off. It’s not far, just three streets over. The park is quiet. It’s too early for the school crowds, and there are just a few very small children playing in the enclosed playground area, and an elderly couple walking a small elderly dog. Athos strolls to the top, and finds Porthos under a couple of trees, lying with his hands behind his head. Athos sits cross legged beside him.

  
  


“How’d you find me?” Porthos asks, not sounding particularly pleased about it, but not angry either.

  
  


Athos puts the paper on Porthos' chest and pats it. It’s a drawing of Porthos sat, making a daisy-chain. Porthos looks at it and snorts.

  
  


“d’Art added the daisy chain, I was just sitting, and it was a different park. Who gave you that?”

  
  


“My source wishes to remain anonymous,” Athos says.

  
  


“Jerry. Traitor. He’s just mad because I haven’t been using the car.”

  
  


“Why are we taking a sick day to sunbathe?” Athos asks, lying back beside Porthos, letting his leg rest against Porthos' thigh.

  
  


“Dunno why  _ you _ are,” Porthos says, belligerence making an appearance. Still not anger, though.

  
  


“I’m curious.”

  
  


“Suspicious bastard,” Porthos grumbles.

  
  


“Mm, true.”

  
  


“Well, you’re right. I’m skiving. What are you gonna do about it?”

  
  


“Not a lot. Tell me why?” Athos asks, shifting until he’s closer, body touching Porthos', head against Porthos' biceps. Porthos shrugs, then sighs. “You’re in pain, or upset, or is work too much? Is it because of the tiredness? You’ve been really good at working around that recently. Or are you actually sick? Are you depressed? Or did Lemay tell you something? Or-”

  
  


“Ath, stop,” Porthos says, getting up on an elbow and pressing a hand to Athos' mouth, frowning down at him. “What are you like? I thought you thought I was skiving, not that I was dying or something. Nothing’s wrong, I’m just- I’m so fucking bored!”

  
  


Porthos flops back again and groans. Athos sits up, crossing his legs again, and stares at Porthos. Then he slaps his stomach and glares.

  
  


“You let me worry!”

  
  


“I did not! I didn’t even know you were worrying, because you never said anything! You and Aramis been tiptoeing around me like I’m made ‘a glass or something. It’s annoying!”

  
  


“Bored?” Athos asks, then hits Porthos again.

  
  


“There’s nothing to do,” Porthos says. “We’ve got no cases, d’Art’s gone off to do boring street patrols, Samara won’t let me do anything with her because she thinks I’ll break myself again, and you keep passing off cases to other people.”

  
  


“I thought we could use a break,” Athos says, with dignity. “It’s only been-”

  
  


“Two  months,” Porthos says. “Two long, boring months. Everyone else is taking their cue from you. All I’ve got recently is a couple of requests for information from informants, one request to sit in on an interview on a juvie case, and invitations to various lunches, brunches, and other healthsome meal type things where they try to feed me rabbit food.”

  
  


“You want a case? Help Aramis with the Fairies,” Athos says.

  
  


Porthos looks shifty, and Athos hits him again, punching his shoulder this time. Porthos gets fed up and rolls himself on top of Athos, laughing. They wrestle for a while, until Athos can dig his fingers into Porthos' ticklish sides. They roll down the slope, Porthos cackling and squirming, coming to rest in front of the couple with the dog, who look down at them in shock. Athos jumps to his feet and brushes himself off. There’s a wave of forceful amusement from one half of the couple, fondness for their partner, and the feeling of a strong, happy memory. It’s passed between them with a nudge and there’s reciprocating amusement, along with exasperation and a small touch of irritation.

  
  


“Sorry,” Porthos says, getting to his feet. “Just a bit of play. What’s the dog’s name, eh?”

  
  


“Jonas,” Exasperated Irritation says.

  
  


Porthos crouches and talks to the dog, leaving Athos to make awkward small talk. Since d’Artagnan his empathetic sensitivity has increased, and he has much more control, especially with d’Artagnan, Aramis and Porthos. It’s a bit haywire, though, so Athos gets weird flashes of emotion in parks. Fond Amusement, for example, is currently struggling against some kind of excited joy.

  
  


“Well, we’ll leave you to your walk,” Athos says, pointedly, tugging Porthos' shoulder.

  
  


“What? Oh, right, I’m holdin’ you up. Sorry. On your way, then, thanks for the cuddles. That’s one lovely little doggie you’ve got.”

  
  


“Thanks,” Fond Amusement says.

  
  


Athos pulls, and Porthos comes away. They walk back down the park, Athos tucked against Porthos' side.

  
  


“Can we stay home now, till Monday?” Porthos asks. “Or are you gonna make me go back?”

  
  


“I’m going to make you tell me about the Fairies,” Athos says. “But you can stay home.”

  
  


“Aw, Athos.”

  
  


“Nope. And no getting into trouble to get out of it,” Athos says, catching Porthos' eyes roaming the park.

  
  


“Right. Did you notice, though, that there’s a Nymph over by the duck pond?”

  
  


“No. I did not notice, and neither did you.”

  
  


“Oh. Did you actually not notice, or did you not notice like I’m not noticing?”

  
  


Athos looks over at the pond. He can’t see anything Nymph like. The only Nymph he met, though, is Father, and he’s not sure if they’re all as tall as a house and covered in sea things. He’s reluctantly curious. He nudges into Porthos, and they change direction, toward the pond. Porthos thrums with excitement for a moment, but then it goes out, like a spark, and Porthos walks a hundred metres to a bench and plonks down with such a big sigh it’s like he’s trying to blow the park down.

  
  


“What? Did you make the Nymph up?” Athos asks, standing in front of him. Porthos is now, Athos can’t help but tell, feeling like a wet weekend at Glastonbury, the sort where there’s too much mud, not enough weed, and not even a band you feel like hearing. “What the hell just happened to your mood?”

  
  


“It’s not me,” Porthos says, blinking up at Athos, jerking his head to the right.

 

There’s a little boy wandering along the path, and, yeah, his mood matches Porthos' exactly. Athos sits beside Porthos and they watch the boy walk along. He’s got a carer with him, a few metres back, looking anxious. As they get closer, Porthos shifts, and Athos feels a tentative warmth, and then a flood of joy and laughter and Porthos is overdoing it, because Athos is flung through happy, pleasant memories in a blurry, dizzying rush. The boy stops abruptly, and turns his head to Porthos.

 

“Hi,” Porthos says.

 

“Sorry,” the carer says, catching up, looming protectively over the child. “He can't help it, he's just manifested and he's trying, but control isn't easy.”

 

Athos wonders who's been bothering these people over a child's emotions, and wonders if he can do something to whoever that might be. Porthos grins, though, and doesn't pay much attention to the adult.

 

“Want to see something cool?” Porthos asks.

 

The boy nods, and Porthos shuts his eyes, holds his arms out wide from his body. He takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a whoosh, pulling his arms to him. The dust on the path leaps up, and there's a rustle in the grass, a bad tempered Ghost appearing. A dust sprite, Athos realises from the air disturbance, as someone yells and falls off a skateboard that careens into the grass. The dog with the skateboarder barks, as it's frisbee leaps off the ground and flies off, dog haring after it. Athos' hair stands on end. He grumbles at Porthos and searches his pockets for his phone, flicking through for the right spell and quickly quelling the sprite. The Ghost comes over and sits beside Porthos.

 

“What?” it says.

 

“I'm Porthos, this is Athos. I don't know your name?” Porthos says, turning to the boy.

 

“Tom,” he says, looking on wide-eyed. “Can I do that, too, do you think?”

 

“Nope,” Porthos says. “I had to go to school and more school and more school.”

 

“Am I here for any reason?” the Ghost asks.

 

“Uh, no,” Porthos says. “What's your name, though?”

 

“Gallagher. I thought you wanted something.”

 

“Nah,” Porthos says, leaning back. “Just showing off.”

 

Tom sits on the bench next to Porthos, and stares at Gallagher. Gallagher stares back, then turns to Porthos and raises an eyebrow.

 

“Do  _ you _ want something?” Athos asks.

 

“I may do,” Gallagher says.

 

“I'm gonna show Tom something else,” Porthos says. “I'll give you time in a sec, Gallagher. Okay, so, there's this little switch, like, in me head. Dunno what it'll be for you. But, watch. Pay attention.”

 

Porthos takes a deep breath again, holding his hands out palm up. He slowly closes his hands, then opens them, letting his breath out. There's a gentle sensation, air vibrating. It feels like it's just rained, and everything is fresh. Then it dissipates. Porthos lets his hands drop sharply, and whatever he keeps in place around himself drops with them. There's a chaotic moment of a tumble of joy, excitement, apprehension, dullness, and then Porthos lifts his hands again, and the rain sensation is back.

 

“That's control, see?” Porthos says. “You got a mentor, Tom?”

 

“Yeah, school assigned me one when I manifested,” Tom says.

 

“Your mentor Bright?” Porthos asks.

 

“She's a Pedagog, and a teacher. We chose her because her father’s Bright. There aren't any other Brights around, not who are mentors and trained and all,” Tom says.

 

“I've got a bit of time on my hands, and since I gave up fostering I've been registered,” Porthos says, turning from Tom to his carer.

 

“Really? That'd be amazing. Tom says Sylvie doesn't have a clue what she's talking about. She's really nice and she definitely knows stuff and Tommy's not very patient, but it would be really good for him, I think. People work off what’s known about Empathy, for Brights,” the carer says.

 

“Let me give you me name, I'll write it out for you. If you talk to the counsellor at your school they can sort it out. If they have any trouble, it'll be because of my work, so let 'em know that I'm a copper. Then they won't get stuck in bureaucracy,” Porthos says. He's reaching over Gallagher, hand wriggling into Athos' pocket, fishing for a notebook. “Athos, your trousers are too small. Why are you wearin' these?”

 

“They're not too small, get off, it's not even in that pocket,” Athos says, pushing his hand away and getting the notebook from the other pocket. He gets a pen, too, and Porthos scribbles his details down, then turns back to Tom.

 

“Your mentor probably told you to stop feeling, right? They do that. It's all about feelings, for Empaths. For us, it's more about, like,” Porthos wrinkles up his nose, and scratches his head, reaching for a description.

 

“It's about your heart,” Athos says. “You can find control by regulating your physical body. Try some breathing exercises, and when you do something active, take a bit of time on your own afterwards to let yourself get your breath, calm down.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, nodding. “Heart sight, they call it. Or soul magic. But Athos is right, practicality tends to work better than spirituality.”

 

Tom nods solemnly, and is lead away. Porthos turns to Athos and gives him a big grin and thumbs up, then he focusses his attention on Gallagher.

 

“Lucky we came along, isn't it?” Porthos says. “Who's got you chained to this park?”

 

“I don't know. I served Hugh O'Neill, I swore my life to him. Then I was shot in France, a mercenary, and my soul became tethered here. I want to go back to Ireland,” Gallagher says. “I have unfinished business.”

 

“Violent business, I imagine,” Porthos says, then shrugs. “I can find out why you're here, if you like, but not today. I'll have to come back with a few bits. Sunday. Noon. Noon is a good time for spells,” Porthos says.

 

“Alright. If you want to research O'Neill, don't trust what the English write,” Gallagher says.

 

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Porthos says. “Never trust the English on historical matters, I say. Anything else?”

 

“No. I'll pay what I owe, if that's the problem, whatever that might be,” Gallagher says.

 

Porthos nods, and gets up, stretching. He's in a good mood on the way back to the flat, and when they get there, he knocks cheerfully on the car in greeting.

 

“Oh, your 'Geist was playing with the washing machine when I popped by,” Athos remembers, on the way up. Porthos opens the flat, and they're met with the sound of a washing machine on a violent spin cycle, crashing against the inside of a cupboard. “Maybe I should have done something about that?”

 

“Nah, doesn't matter,” Porthos says. “That thing's been on the blink since its possession. Every time I fix it, the Poltergeist buggers it up again. It's your fault, you know, sneaking my clothes in under me when I nap and sniffing at them. The Poltergeist likes you, it's trying to help.”

 

“Oh,” Athos says, flushing.

 

“Speaking of, I have something for you,” Porthos says.

 

He slips out of his shoes and goes to the bedroom, coming back with the sweatshirt Aramis took for the Fairies. Athos takes it, and goes to make himself an Irish coffee. He hesitates, when he's done, and then pours himself a glass of straight whiskey, too. He goes to the living area, where Porthos is waiting, looking sheepish.

 

“How did you get this?” Athos says, sitting in the arm chair, spreading the hoodie over his knee.

 

“Aramis shouldn't have took it,” Porthos says, defensive, pouting. Athos takes a gulp of whiskey that burns going down but buzzes nicely, offsetting the sharp irritation. Porthos scowls. “It's mine.”

 

“I am aware that you don't like the Fairies having your stuff,” Athos says. “How did you get it, I said, not why.”

 

“Just asked, nice like,” Porthos says, shifting. Athos takes another sip of whiskey. “I did!”

 

“Porthos. You are not supposed to mess in the affairs of the Fairies. They already want to do destructive things to you.”

 

“Yeah, well, they can't. So. And I really did just ask for that back. I just… offered them something better for it,” Porthos says.

 

“Who did you deal with, and what did you give?” Athos asks.

 

“Lip, it was only little Lip,” Porthos says. Lip isn't so bad. Aramis has told Athos about Lip. If Mabh refuses to see him, Aramis will sometimes go to Lip. They're young, in Fairie years, and like to play with humans, so they're willing to negotiate. Athos relaxes a little. Porthos shifts. “And… and the Gancanagh.”

 

“Porthos!”

 

“I like 'em,” Porthos grumbles, ducking his head with a flush.

 

“Yes, because they keep seducing you!” Athos says.

 

“The Gancanagh seduces everyone, you don't need to be jealous. That's what they like doing. Whispering nice words.”

 

“They like you best,” Athos says, scowling.

 

Porthos looks up with a pleased smile. Athos groans and downs the rest of the whiskey. It's not that he's jealous. He's not, not really. If he got jealous every time something or someone took a shine to Porthos, it'd be ridiculous. Porthos usually takes a shine back, too, so that's not it either. Nor is it the sexual nature of the encounter. Porthos enjoys his sexuality, and other people's, but he's faithful to Athos, beyond a fault. If he was seduced by the Gancanagh then it was only within Porthos' boundaries, and it's much more likely that they were only playing. It isn't that.

 

“ _ I _ like  _ you _ the best,” Porthos says.

 

“Yes, I know. Fine. But the Gancanagh always wants something that- oh no. You took something of Aramis', didn't you?” Athos says. Porthos shifts again, biting his lip. To keep from laughing, Athos realises. “You took something of Aramis' that has to do with sex. Porthos! That's so unprofessional!”

 

Porthos doesn't laugh, but he might as well. Athos can feel it filling the room. Porthos isn't exactly projecting, Athos is sure, maybe it's just his damn empathy working again. It's doing that a lot today.

 

“It wasn't anything terrible,” Porthos says. “Just, he keeps a bunch of notes from Anne locked in that drawer in his desk. Or he used to.”

 

“Porthos!” Athos squeaks.

 

“Lip liked 'em. Good enough to give my jumper back, anyway.”

 

“What else have you done with the Fairies?”

 

“Told ‘em off for trying to steal my friends,” Porthos says, sitting up straight with righteous indignation. Then he slumps. “Only a little bit. You know, Ath, I think d'Art did something to me, too. I'm good at Fairie politics, and I've dealt with them enough that they're wary of me. The Gancanagh is the only one who likes me. Lip'll deal with me, on sufferance if I demand it. But, since d'Artagnan, it's been real easy.”

 

Athos hesitates. There's another thing that Porthos has been doing since d'Artagnan's apprenticeship, and this seems like a good moment to bring it up. Porthos brushes it aside, though, and gets up to shout at the Poltergeist and go to fix the washing machine, and the moment passes.

 

“So,” Aramis says, on Monday, sitting at Athos' desk when Athos gets in. “I've been talking to Lip.”

 

“Uh oh,” Athos says.

 

“You know.”

 

“Got it out of him on Friday. He's gone down to bother the magi, if you're wondering where he is,” Athos says.

 

“You've been coming in together more often, recently,” Aramis says, dropping the Fairie issue in preference for the hint of good gossip. Athos just shrugs, though, so Aramis switches back. “He's making my job harder.”

 

“He should stop. Just don't take his things without asking,” Athos says.

 

“What did I take? I only take things that we've dumped here in a 'that might be useful later' kind of way, nothing important.”

 

“Clothing,” Athos says.

 

“That hoodie? It's not even Porthos'! He nicked it from one of the DI's in CID!” Aramis protests.

 

“Nonetheless.”

 

“Fine,” Aramis says, taking a deep, calming breath. “No more taking things Porthos is possessive of. I can't get any further with them right now, anyway.”

 

“Why not? Do you want help researching, or to brainstorm about it?”

 

“No. They want me to give them what Porthos stole, and I don't even know what that is, because it isn't me. I asked Lip and they said it's not me, but they wouldn't tell me what it is.”

 

“I don't know either,” Athos says, before Aramis asks. “We could ask him?”

 

Aramis snorts, which is fair enough. Their conversation is derailed by d'Artagnan wandering in. As he brushes past Athos, Athos gets a sharp note of distress and unhappiness. He goes to get cake and coffee. When he returns, Porthos is curled in the window seat, looking miserable. d'Artagnans sat in a chair beside him, also looking miserable. The stupid cat is sat on Porthos, looking happy. Aramis is bent over his computer screen ignoring it all. Athos gives out the coffee cups, and gives Porthos' hip a comforting pat, then sits at Porthos' desk, as Aramis is still at his.

 

“Not on duty?” he asks d'Artagnan.

 

“Ninon's in hospital,” d'Artagnan says. “I've got the afternoon off.”

 

“Is she alright?” Athos asks.

 

“We were on crowd control at a small food, music, hippy fair thing, and she got bottled by a guy who was drunk and belligerent. I arrested him, just finished processing him,” d'Artagnan says. “She's going to be fine, apparently, just an abrasion on her scalp and a slight concussion. Her friend Fleur is going to stay with her.”

 

“It sounds like everything's under control,” Athos says, soothingly, wondering what about all this has upset Porthos, but keeping his focus on d'Artagnan.

 

“I'm not great with people getting hurt on duty,” d'Artagnan mutters, glaring around at them as if it's their fault. Which, to be fair, it might be.

 

“I can assure you everything's fine,” Athos says. “Eat your cake. You can hang out here, we've got nothing on.”

 

“I do,” Porthos says. “SI want me.”

 

“For what?” Aramis asks, head coming up. “Tell them we're busy and need you. They can't have you.”

 

“The Levesque case,” Porthos says, with a great sigh. “No, I'm doing it. It's interesting. Gonna commandeer you, too, Aramis. Maybe you want to come along, pup?”

 

“Me?” d'Artagnan says. “No. No, I refuse to work with your chaos.”

 

“Afraid of getting hit with a fish?” Porthos says, grinning and sitting up, lifting the cat into his lap and petting him. “Or you gonna trip over your own feet and fall into the fragma-plasma, like you did next week?”

 

“What?” d'Artagnan says.

 

Athos shakes his head, when d'Artagnan looks at him, and when Porthos just repeats the thing about the fish, d'Artagnan drops it. Aramis raises an eyebrow, but Athos glares.

 

“Like old times,” Porthos says, ignoring all this. “Come on, pup, let's visit Marsac. He'll have some stuff on old houses and brothels. We'd best read up. Some of the Ghosts they've got are gonna be nasty.”

 

“Ghosts? What is the Levesque case?” Aramis asks.

 

Porthos leaves the office, d'Artagnan following on with docile glumness. Athos watches them go, then shakes himself.

 

“What? Levesque? I think that's the people doing the rent-a-Ghost sex ring thing,” Athos says. “Magi Unit found no evidence that they're doing anything with magic, so they passed the case to CID, who found no evidence of exploitation, of people or Ghosts, so they've passed it to SI. All CID found was a business front that links Ghosts with real world work. Community engagement, they call it- get a Ghost engaged with the world of the living type thing. SI think that what they're actually doing is running a brothel of illegally bound Ghosts, offering them up as sex workers.”

 

“SI want to find evidence,” Aramis says. “Why does Porthos want me?”

 

“I assume because you have a certain reputation that he can use,” Athos says.

 

“And the reason we're not pointing it out when Porthos flashes forwards?”

 

“He hasn't noticed it,” Athos says. “I think it's because of the Sky Lark stuff.”

 

“That's not a reason for us not telling him.”

 

“He hasn't noticed,” Athos says, again. “The Fairies are talking to him much, much more willingly.”

 

“Time,” Aramis says. “He's messing with time.”

 

“I think so. Not, not really messing with it, but manipulating something, or reading something. Got to let his mind deal with that naturally. If we force it, whatever this is might… did you ever meet a seer?” Athos asks.

 

“Yeah, when I was studying medicine, on my mental health intervention placement,” Aramis says. “I've read up, I know that it can be damaging to mental wellness.”

 

“Most authorities on seers talk about manifestation being key to mental stability.”

 

“Porthos isn't a seer. I suppose, though, that I see your point. It's still just little things, right?”

 

“Mostly about us. Though, the other day he did tell Shirley that she shouldn't give the neighbours the cakes she was going to make next year.”

 

“Huh. He's really fond of that Poltergeist. I finished the consult on the plasma-fragma for you, by the way. You'd have enjoyed it. It's Milton was on point. Do we really have no cases?”

 

“I don't have a clue, you've got my desk.”

 

The switch places, and Athos checks his emails and intray. There is a case, but it's another changeling thing and Athos passes it on to Child Protection. Until Aramis negotiates something with the Fairies, it's safer for the families to exchange as private citizens. The Fairies are more relaxed about rules, with them. They do charge a higher price, but it can't be helped. There's also always the danger of the families not taking advice, and paying what they shouldn't, and causing more harm, too. As Athos considers all these things, he gets a ping from Constance.

 

“We have a case,” Athos says, reluctantly. “A sorcerer at UCL. Real Victor Frankenstein. An Undergrad who locked himself in his room and has done something, case file doesn't really say what. It's been seeping out and… it says 'eating', here, but- seeping out and eating passers by from the hallway.”

 

“Immediate threat take precedence over SI’s thing, let’s get Porthos and go,” Aramis says, grabbing his jacket. 

 

Porthos is irritated to be taken away from his research, mostly, Athos thinks, because his ‘research’ is pretty much just cuddling with d’Artagnan while d’Artagnan reads. They escort d’Artagnan to MU, and make him sit with Constance, so he’s not alone when upset. Which would be inexcusable, leaving d’Artagnan Alone When Upset. Athos grumbles, but secretly he agrees. He feels quite protective of him, by now. Everyone’s quite protective of him, really. Except Samara. Samara still just wants to test his Ability and do research on him. d’Artagnan’s ease in dealing with that, holding his own with her, and actually building a friendship with her, goes to show that he doesn’t really need their protection, is perfectly capable of handling himself. 

 

“Athos? You with us, there? Or are you just day dreaming?” Aramis asks. “Only, you nearly walked into a wall.”

 

“I got you through the doors,” Porthos says, patting Athos' arm. “Navigating for dreamers, a service since nineteen twenty four. Ten pounds a minute. That was three minutes of navigation for your daydream, so you owe me thirty quid, Ath.”

 

“Shut up,” Athos says, stalking to Aramis' car. 

 

The university is usually a fairly chaotic place. They have good security of their own, solid shields around practise areas for magic, most of their accommodation is shielded, there are magic dampners available on most walls, and ‘break glass for spell’ boxes littering the place. The police are rarely called out there, except for occasional talks about career paths, or as crowd control at protests. The drug squad’s called out more than anyone from the Supernatural Unit. Porthos knows his way around campus, he teaches there most summers, and he heads straight for the Student Union, where they’re to be met. He greets the Dean with a warm smile and handshake. 

 

“Philippe, you look well,” Porthos says. “This is DI d’Herblay, and DCI de la Fere. Guys, this is Philippe Feron, he’s dean here. What’s going on?”

 

“Some idiot on Professor Marcheaux’s course, took to the ideas with an admirable competence,” Feron snaps. “Bloody George, I have told him about instituting better safety measures. Teaching dark magic is so bloody stupid.”

 

“He’s a historian,” Porthos says. “He hardly teaches the practical applications of spells like that. You’ve never had a problem with any of his students.”

 

“Up until now,” Feron says. “Come, I’ll show you.”

 

He takes them through the campus and around the sports field to several tall, uniform, red brick buildings. They enter ‘Tower Three’ and are at once met with loud music, laughter. They head for the top floor, and it gets steadily quieter. When they finally reach the top, Feron panting and using his crutch and the banister, there’s no one around. There’s a dark fug that envelops them when they reach the top. 

 

“I hate it when they break the lift,” Feron says, gasping for breath.Porthos pulls a chair out from the wall, and Feron sits heavily in it. He waves Aramis away, when Aramis looks like he’s going to check him over. “My family legacy. A crumbling spine. Nothing you can do.”

 

“You could have waited at the bottom, as I suggested,” Porthos says. “Never mind. What is this stuff?”

 

“No idea, if you mean the foggy stuff. It’s been hanging around the last day or so. If you wander to the right it gets thicker, and there’s something sticky on the floor. I assume you read the report?”

 

“Something eating people,” Athos says. 

 

“Student doing a Victor Frankenstein,” Aramis says. 

 

“Some kind of experimental magic that’s got a student stuck in their room, and is causing problems for those who try to rescue her,” Porthos says. 

 

“Or anyone just walking near,” Feron says. 

 

There’s the clatter of feet on the stairs and a student bursts up onto the landing. She’s all kinky hair and colourful clothes, a bag slung over a shoulder, barely out of breath. Athos admires her for a moment, then opens his mouth to suggest she head back down. 

 

“For the hundredth time, I cannot sanction you being here, I don’t have the insurance,” Feron says. 

 

“I’m Sylvie Hubert, Rochelle called me,” the woman says. “I was her mentor, until September. Because this stupid university doesn’t have a mentor programme, and the government only funds it until people reach eighteen, despite the fact that if you are studying magic it is a necessity to have personal, one to one guidance! Which is why almost every other university in the country has a mentoring programme which funds our continued involvement in the students lives.”

 

“You know the student?” Aramis says. “Great, you’re with us. We’ve got it from here, Dean.”

 

“Oh no, Philippe’s coming with us,” Porthos says. “Why d’you think he climbed all them stairs?”

 

“Two civilians. Good,” Athos says. “Great. Porthos, a word?”

 

“Nah, mate, you can berate me later,” Porthos says. “Philippe’s one of the most highly educated mages around, he’ll be useful if we need to do off the cuff spells. Because we’re all of us shite at spell-work, and neither of you are actually legally allowed to do it, so. Anyway, he’s half brother to Louis Royal, so we don’t have a choice. Sylvie, do you mind if I call you Sylvie or do you prefer Hubert, and some sort of title? What can you tell us about the student in there?”

 

“Sylvie’s fine. She’s called Rochelle, eighteen, academic-minded. She was a great student, and had good control as a hedgewitch. She’s a Pedagogue, like me.”

 

“Any emotional problems, problems at home, anything like this happen before?” Aramis asks. 

 

“She’s got a great family. Not much money, lower class, not a great school, but lots of support. I was aware that she wasn’t getting on well here, that she was struggling to make friends, but nothing beyond that. She enjoyed her classes, liked her professors. She didn’t say much more about this class than any other, and she didn’t seem distressed last time we talked. She texted me two days ago asking me to come, but when I got the time, yesterday, she was already shut in and this idiot wouldn’t let me near!”

 

“Thanks,” Porthos says. “What kinda magic is her strength? What do you think this might be?”

 

“She’s always liked experimenting, used to try making up her own spells, weaving stuff together, that sort of thing. I suspect it’s probably a couple of things that reacted badly to one another. She uses cloves as a conduit, usually, which I have warned her can have an effect on the spell, but they amplify a little, so she doesn’t care.”

 

“Great,” Porthos says. “Feron, let’s see what we can find in this fog, then look at the sticky floor. Sylvie, if you’d wait here for the moment? We won’t be attempting to reach Rochelle quite yet.”

 

Porthos passes Aramis his walkman device, and Athos rummages for his phone. Porthos just stands in it, feet shoulder width apart, and closes his eyes, ignoring them. Feron mutters a few spells and then gets up, pulling his chair deeper into it. Athos puts the torch on, first, and shines it into the smug. It’s not fog, there’s nothing lit up in the beam of light. Athos walks cautiously forward, but even in the deeper smug, there’s nothing physical. Vestiges of the spell, then. He flicks through his phone for the app he’s developing, and tries it out. It emits sound on different frequencies, and looks for vibrations in the air that match. It’s no good on emotional energy, but is otherwise sound in theory. There is a slight resonance, in the fug, and deeper. Along the corridor, there’s a huge amount of energy. Athos retreats, and he and Aramis regroup. 

 

“Plenty of emotional stuff,” Aramis says. “Anger, frustration, grief. Feels like someone who got dumped.”

 

“You’d know all about that,” Porthos says, coming up to them.

 

“There’s something, some kind of charge,” Athos says. “Stupid thing can’t identify it. Perhaps because it doesn’t match any of the spells I’ve programmed this with. I think this fug, and it isn’t fog so stop calling it that, is some kind of vestige of the spell.”

 

“There are three spells,” Porthos says. “None very powerful. Two are knitted tight together, I can’t identify them at all, but the third is-”

 

“A love spell,” Feron says, limping out of the fug. “It’s one of the ones Henry the eighth used. Bloody George.”

 

“Not his fault,” Porthos sing-songs, clearly this is an ongoing thing between them. “Anyway, I was GOING to say I think the third one is a searching spell. Which means the love spell is one of the ones knitted up. Which makes sense, spells manipulating emotion are notoriously tricky and like to do their own thing. The searcher will be easy enough to dismantle, and will probably stop the oozing sticky… stuff, oh that’s just gross.”

 

“What?” Athos asks. 

 

“It got a bit tangled with the love spell,” Porthos says. “Just… don’t step in it.”

 

Sylvie starts to laugh, reminding them of her presence. Porthos glares at her, but Athos is kind of amused, too, if he’s getting Porthos' inference right. He grins at her, and she grins back and shakes her head. 

 

“Teenagers,” Aramis mutters. 

 

“Feron, can you do something about the searcher?” Porthos says. “I wanna see if we can find the other spell knitted up.”

 

“I could do that much more easily than you three,” Feron says. 

 

“Possibly, possibly. Neither loves nor searchers tend to have much emotion discharge-”

 

“Bad choice of words,” Aramis mutters, sniggering.

 

“Would you all stop?” Porthos growls. “It ain’t fucking funny. None of the spells we’ve identified would cause the kind of emotional charge you found, Aramis, so I think this other spell is some kind of warped attempt to imitate Ability with a spell, and I think it was an accident. You said she’s a Pedagogue? There’s a lot of information in that woman’s mind, just churning about. If she was upset when she was casting, and she uses instinct, who knows what she’s done.”

 

“She is a very instinctual caster,” Sylvie says. 

 

“Okay. Athos, I’m gonna use you to try and find the charge Aramis identified with the device. Aramis, once he’s got it, you’re gonna find Rochelle and reach out to her.”

 

“Athos is better at that,” Aramis says. 

 

“Yeah, but Athos is busy, so you’re gonna do it,” Porthos says. “When Aramis finds a connection with her, you need to read Aramis, Ath. Just find out what he’s thinking. I don’t want you going straight to her, who knows what’s going on inside her. I’ll facilitate you guys sharing. Sylvie, we’ll be a couple of minutes. Wait here.”

 

Feron goes first, clunking ahead and muttering as he goes, reaching out to find the right spell. Porthos doesn’t tell him to be careful not to accidentally catch the others in his casting, so Athos doesn’t worry about that. He and Aramis stop before the floor gets sticky. Porthos waits, expectant, then Athos feels frustration build in him and he shoves Aramis. 

 

“Well, link hands and sing Kumbaya,” Porthos snaps. 

 

Athos holds out his hands, and Aramis, rolling his eyes, takes them. Porthos rests a hand on each of their shoulders, and Athos can feel him, brushing his mind. Porthos isn’t like d’Artagnan, can’t access any of Athos' Ability or amplify it. When Athos finds whatever it is he’s looking for, though, Porthos’ll pass it across to Aramis, and when Aramis gets what they need, Porthos will pass it back to Athos. Athos doesn’t actually know what to do next. He shuts his eyes, but nothing happens. He cracks one open and looks at Porthos who snorts. 

 

“Just reach,” Porthos murmurs. “You know what a charge feels like, find it.”

 

Athos is used to charges being part of people. The charges around him now feel barely there, like magic without a conduit, dispersed and weak and impossible to get a grip on. The more he reaches for it, the further away it gets. He thinks of Porthos, and of Brightness, and Empathy, and their differences, and looks for another way. He needs a conduit, and he has one: himself. He finds his own emotions, the ones identified by Aramis. Grief, anger, frustration. Finds the shapes of them. Then looks for resonance, echoes, around him. He manipulates the shapes in himself until they match with the ones out there, and finds others, bringing them together into a vague whole. He jerks his shoulder, and feels Porthos with him again, the shape solidifying under Porthos' power, shifting. 

 

Athos waits. He can hear Porthos and Aramis muttering, then Aramis humming, and then Porthos is squeezing his shoulder. He nods. Aramis is familiar, he knows how to reach for him, search him. He’s not trained enough to get close to his mind, but he knows how he feels easily. Then Porthos shifts, and grunts, and there’s more Aramis than usual. There’s sadness and fear, and shivering, and when Athos tries to soothe it gets worse instead of better. 

 

“Tell me what you’ve got,” Porthos says. 

 

“Rochelle,” Athos says, realising it. “She’s scared.”

 

“Mm hmm, she would be. More than that.”

 

“Grief?”

 

“Nope, not that either, deeper, Athos. What’s deeper?”

 

“Anger. Anger at… agency, it’s aimed.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Porthos says. “Good. That’s good. What else? Anything else with agency?”

 

“I told you, she’s scared,” Athos says, irritated. “Oh, and a bit cross.”

 

“No that’s Aramis,” Porthos says. “Feron annoyed ‘im. Not irritated.”

 

“There’s… there’s something,” Athos says, feeling carefully around the edges of the shapes, trying to find them. Aramis uses music for this, pitch and tone and pattern. Athos is more visual, though. Shapes. 

 

“Look for colour,” Porthos says. “Like when we did that thing with Samara and d’Artagnan, couple of weeks ago.”

 

That had been nice. Athos had been talking about how he and Milady used to share, sitting on the living room rug, hands joined, their Abilities matched. They’d felt each other, and shared the same emotional centre for a bit, passing things back and forth that there weren’t words for. Porthos had been intrigued, and then Athos had got home to find Porthos, d’Artagnan, and Samara at his table, drinking his coffee, eating his snacks. They’d used d’Artagnan to make things easy, and make their control better, and then they’d shared. Differently than Milady and Athos, there was more feeling around for things, Porthos passing a shape, a colour, an emotion, Athos finding it and feeling it. He's not able to project emotions, but he can find the shape of Porthos' affection and amplify it a little.They’ve done it a couple of time, Athos pressing into him, finding other shapes, other colours. Porthos gives him a new shape, when they do it. It's new every time. Athos hadn't realised the saying 'I love you in new ways every day' could be quite so literal. Porthos really does, though.

 

Athos reaches for Porthos, first, automatically. There’s too much there, though, three or four people all crammed inside of him, too many colours, too many shapes. Athos looks for Aramis again. His conduit, for Rochelle. Finds her. He searches for the colours he found so easily in Porthos, and there, a spark. Just a tiny little light. It’s beautiful, and as Athos finds it, he feels carefully over the fragility of it. Like a butterfly. As he thinks that, it becomes one, one of the white plume moths that the white lady had been under Father’s magic. The wings are shadowed with colour, though. 

 

“Come on, back you come,” Porthos murmurs. 

 

Another moth joins the plume, much brighter, more energetic. Porthos'. Not a new shape, and old one. Familiar, warm. Athos sinks into the affection and finds Porthos, and lets got Aramis' hand to grip Porthos' arm. 

 

“There you go. Alright?” Porthos says. 

 

“Yeah,” Athos says. “Weird day at work.”

 

Porthos laughs, and Athos feels that, too, vibrating the air almost painfully. Like he’s over sensitive. He draws into himself, letting go Aramis and Porthos. He breathes for a while, carefully, deeply. Porthos is talking soothingly to Aramis. 

 

“Happiness,” Athos says. “That’s the other emotion you’re after Porthos. Happiness, and anger. Directed, purposeful.”

 

“Alright, go sit down,” Porthos says. 

 

Athos looks around. The fug’s gone, and the floor’s clean. It’s just a plain, same-old, accommodation hallway. Feron’s chair’s against the wall. Athos falls into it. Aramis sinks to the floor next to him, cradling his head. 

 

“You okay?” Athos asks. 

 

“Porthos' pet Dean bumped into me,” Aramis snaps, looking up. His eyes are red, and his face twisted with pain. 

 

“Athos looks up, locating Porthos. He’s stood in front of one of the doors, Feron beside him leaning heavily on the crutch. 

 

“His back hurts,” Aramis says. “I wasn’t expecting it. I tried to fix it. Porthos pulled me back and focussed me quickly, but it was… annoying. Apparently.”

 

“Mm. Yeah, definitely irritation. This is weird, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes. New, weird, and annoying. Work isn’t supposed to have all this crap with it,” Aramis says. 

 

“Would you two please shut up so I can concentrate?” Feron says, glaring at them over his shoulder. “You sure you want me to use you as a conduit, Porthos?”

 

“Yeah, it’ll work best. It’s all already in there, you shouldn’t have any trouble finding the spell. If you can ease them apart and deconstruct the searcher, the other should disperse. She hasn’t actually got the power to hold it, it’s only because it’s caught up with the magic of the searcher that it’s sticking around.”

 

“We don’t know what the concussion of the deconstruction will do to the conduit,” Feron says. 

 

“Eh, I’ve weathered worse,” Porthos says, then tenses all his muscle, and laughs. “Come on, let’s do this. It’s like a high, Philippe. A lovely, legal, high.”

 

“You have definitely got something wrong with you,” Feron says. “Okay, then.”

 

Porthos puts his hands against the door, and Feron leans on one of his shoulders, hand on the other. Feron mutters his spells, so Athos doesn’t know what he’s doing. He can feel it, though, and not in an empathetic way. In a the-air-is-burning-it’s-so-charged kind of way. Either Feron or the spell Rochelle’s done, one is pretty powerful. The air peels, coming apart. It’s not the air, it’s the charge, but it feels like the air, like it’s getting thinner. Then there’s a frozen moment, and then an explosion. Of emotion and silence, it’s kind of weird. It condenses around Porthos and then implodes. 

 

Porthos is thrown away from the door, and a strong wind rushes through the hallway, breaking the glass of all the ‘break glass for spells’ boxes. Porthos lets out a cry, but Athos and Aramis have other problems on their hands. The freed spells, for one thing. Athos grabs one of the dampeners and Aramis the other, and they buzz the hallway, the spells falling away. When the air clear Porthos is clambering to his feet, beaming, looking, sure enough, more than a little high. Sylvie steps through and tries the door. It doesn’t open. She turns, and Feron holds out a bunch of keys, leaning wearily on the wall next to the door. Sylvie unlocks it and steps inside. Aramis goes to help Feron, who accepts, this time. Athos gravitates to Porthos, who’s following Sylvie, steps bouncing. Inside is another hallway, with four doors and an open kitchen space. Sylvie goes to B, and knocks. 

 

“Go away,” a small voice answers. 

 

“Rochelle, it’s Sylvie.”

 

The door opens, to reveal a short woman in glasses, hair tied back, eyes red from crying. Her face is slightly swollen with the tears, and she looks like she hasn’t slept. Athos shifts, uncomfortable. He can feel the echoes of her, familiar to him now. Porthos pushes forwards and engulfs the woman in a highly inappropriate hug. Rochelle sighs, though, relaxing into Porthos' arms. Porthos is doing something, thrumming with energy. No emotion, though. Athos frowns, trying to work it out. He recognises it, a slight metallic taste on his tongue. 

 

“You’re Bright,” Sylvie says, stepping away. “And I’ve only ever seen one other person dampen emotion like that, and that was my father. No one can do that.”

 

“I can,” Porthos says, and there’s the emotion. Happy. And high. “Who did this to you, Rochelle, eh? Some twat of a boy?”

 

“I’m so sorry, Sylvie,” Rochelle says. “I was just trying to… find out. I wanted to know if he loved me, because he said he didn’t, but it felt real!”

 

“Your spell ate some people,” Athos says. 

 

Porthos releases Rochelle, remembering himself. Sylvie takes over the comforting, talking quietly to her about relationships or something. Porthos pokes around Rochelle’s little room, looking under the desk, then comes back out, head tilted on one side. 

 

“Looking for a match,” Porthos murmurs. 

 

“That was my thought. But what did it do with them, when it didn’t find one?” Athos asks. 

 

They search all the rooms, the kitchen, but there are no people. Feron tells them there are twelve people missing, but there’s no sign of them. 

 

“Okay, it was instinctive stuff,” Porthos says. 

 

“It was feeding off Rochelle,” Sylvie says. “She was the centre and the conduit, and it just took everything from her, from nowhere else. She’s resting, now. I’m going to take her home when she wakes up.”

 

“So the question is, what would  _ Rochelle _ do with people?” Athos says. 

 

“Nah, she’s asleep,” Porthos says. Then he grins. “What would  _ you _ do with ‘em, Ath? You felt all that, might be possible for you to find ‘em.”

 

“Talk me through it,” Athos demands. 

 

He’s sat cross-legged by Porthos and talked into meditation, though Porthos knows Athos can’t do it, doesn’t want to do it, and finds it not at all helpful. Porthos is giggling, so he must be picking up on Athos' annoyance. He clamps his hands over Athos' ears, and there’s that metallic taste. Porthos has been doing this for a while, but Athos never realised what it was, before. Now he can feel his mind emptying, all the emotion in him and others leaking away. It’s a little disturbing. Porthos slowly lets up, lets go of Athos' head, and by the time he lets go entirely, Athos is in a state of meditation. How annoying. 

 

“Now. You’ve got no conduit, because Aramis never remembers shapes and using me never works for you,” Porthos says. “But you know what you’re looking for. When you find it, you can use Aramis to sort of project it onto, to keep hold of it.”

 

“He can use me,” Sylvie says. “I know Rochelle, and I’m not any kind of emotive Ability.”

 

“It would work better,” Porthos admits. “Might be a bit uncomfortable. He might rifle around in your head a bit.”

 

“Fine. Let’s just find these students,” Sylvie says. 

 

Athos feels her sitting opposite him. He presses everyone away, and focuses on rebuilding the shape and colour of Rochelle. To his surprise, instead of vague shapes, everything is now moths and butterflies. Most of Rochelle’s are grey, white, black. They’re easy to find among the bright colours of Porthos and Sylvie. Athos brings them together, and there’s a thick hum, and they become one butterfly, surprisingly colourful, right in the centre of Sylvie. There are other things to add to it, taken from Sylvie’s hands. Athos concentrated on the butterfly, wondering what to do next. 

 

“Oh, Ath, hang on. You got her?” Porthos says. “Yeah? Yeah. Okay, Feron’s gonna do a spell, just sit tight. Shouldn’t both you. Just keep thinking ‘a Rochelle.”

 

That’s not hard, now. The butterfly is fully formed, flush with colours. Athos is still examining it, when Porthos pulls him back. He looks around, back in the hall. Sylvie looks a little put out. 

 

“That was so strange,” she says, rubbing over her breast bone, staring at Athos. 

 

“Told you,” Porthos says, cheerfully. “Philippe did a search spell. They’re all on campus.”

 

“She sent them home,” Athos says. “But home’s too far. I think she got the library, a safe place.”

 

“Yes, that fits,” Feron says. “There are stacks in the basement that the librarians check once a fortnight, no one goes down there.”

 

They find the twelve students there, in the dark, all sleeping in a row. When the lights come on, with their entry, the students wake up. Aramis checks them over then sends them off, suggesting strongly that they all visit the medical centre. 

 

“That was good outcome,” Porthos says, when they’re all stood in a green quad, under a tree, the sun out. “That was really great. I’m definitely gonna do this mentoring thing.”

 

“What’s your name?” Sylvie asks. 

 

“Porthos Vallon,” Porthos says, beaming. He’s still high, and he’s very proud of his name. 

 

“You met Tommy, in a park,” Sylvie says. “Fantastic. This makes my job much easier. We need to meet. We might as well get a head start, the mentoring team will contact you at some point, with all the boring red tape. Give me your number.”

 

Porthos does, and then Sylvie jogs off back toward the tower block, to see to Rochelle.

 

“Well, gentlemen, thank you for the help,” Feron says. “George wants you for dinner on Sunday, Porthos. Come.”

 

“Yep, if he’s cooking. Not if you are,” Porthos says. 

 

Feron waves him away and limps off. 

 

“Ohhh, he’s  _ dating  _ the black magic guy,” Aramis says, as if everything makes sense, now. 

 

Athos thinks that nothing really makes sense. Porthos is cheerful and giddy, though, and tucks Athos into his side to bounce back to the car. At the station he runs up the stairs, then crashes into MU, announcing himself by tripping and going careening into Theroux, knocking a bowl of green liquid over himself. 

 

“At least I now know that doesn’t work,” Theroux says, passing Porthos a towel.

 

“What was it meant to do?” d’Artagnan says, wandering over and helping get it off Porthos. 

 

Porthos roars enthusiastically and embraces d’Artagnan, covering him in green, too. Back up in their office, Porthos curled up on the window seat, d’Artagnan sat with his back to Porthos', feet up on a chair, reading, Aramis settles next to Athos at Athos' desk. 

 

“It almost feels like things are back to normal,” Aramis murmurs. 

 

And it does, it really does. Except the room is full of butterflies.

 

**

 

“So Gallagher was killed by a bunch ‘a nuns, and I still have no clue why he’s stuck in a park in England. He never even came here, except on his way to France,” Porthos says, on Friday, sprawled on the sofa at Athos' flat. Aramis is there, too, puttering around the kitchen. 

 

“What did he do when he was here? Anyone he ran into English?” Athos asks. 

 

“Dunno,” Porthos says, rubbing his forehead. “I’m getting a headache.”

 

Athos gets up and goes to sit with him, perching on the sofa by his chest. Porthos rests his arm over Athos' knee, and looks up, blinking. Athos puts a hand over his eyes to encourage him to close them, then massages his temple, over his scalp. He takes Porthos' hand and finds the pressure points, rubbing over those, too. 

 

“He shot a woman, while he was here,” Porthos mumbles. “Can’t find anything about her, except that she was shot by an Irish mercenary. She was a thief, no one cared.”

 

“Any name?” Athos asks. 

 

“No. I’m guessin’ it’s some kinda revenge thing,” Porthos says, yawning. I’ll have a look on Sunday, see what spells I can find. Public spaces are always buzzing, but I might be able to differentiate with the info I’ve got. What’s Aramis doing?”

 

“I think he’s attempting to cook something,” Athos says, dubious about it. 

 

“Good, I’m hungry,” Porthos says. 

 

Aramis tries, and largely fails, to cook lamb. It’s edible, and properly cooked. Overcooked. Burnt. Dry. He covers it in thick gravy which is good, and his roast potatoes are, as ever, spectacular, so all in all it’s not too bad. It’s also food which Athos didn’t have to cook, so he eats it with enthusiasm. Porthos eats the potatoes, covering them in gravy and ignoring the meat. And the vegetables. Aramis piles more and more veggies onto Porthos' plate until he eats a single slice of carrot. 

 

“Is that all?” Aramis asks. 

 

“Yep,” Porthos says. “I’m poorly, I’ll eat what I like, nag.”

 

“That’s really not how things work,” Aramis says, nicking a bit of broccoli off Porthos' plate. Porthos slaps his hand away. 

 

“Oops. Sorry. Habit,” Porthos says.

 

He’s not been getting anywhere with the Levesque case, and Aramis has been busy with the Fairies and not around much, which is why he’s here probably. It hasn’t been a good week, either way, and Porthos' headache probably as much a search for attention as an actual headache. Athos and Aramis both give it to him willingly. The memory of Porthos in huge amounts of pain is very close, and having Porthos snoring in their laps is comforting. 

 

“He’s okay, right?” Aramis whispers. 

 

“Yeah,” Athos says. “Fine.”

 

“Did you find out about the time off?”

 

“Yeah. Boredom.”

 

“Research is a good way to slow him down. Levesque, this Gallagher thing. I’m sure I can set him on some things for the Fairies.”

 

Porthos is fine the next day, and on Sunday he and Athos go back to his, and head for the park. Porthos takes Athos' hand, and buys him an ice cream from the van, and calls it a date. It amuses Athos, so he doesn’t point out that Ghost-freeing isn’t a usual date activity. Porthos walks the boundary of the park, pausing now and then, forcing a few things to manifest. Then he heads for the pond, and he stands in the trees there for a really long time. Athos, finished with the ice cream, leans into him, a little bored. 

 

“There,” Porthos whispers, tightening his hold on Athos' shoulder. “Keep still.”

 

“Are we bird watching?” Athos asks. 

 

“Shush. I think this has sommat to do with Gallagher. Hello,” Porthos says. 

 

The rock and tree in front of them turns, a humanoid straightening up, shaking itself off. Most of the tree and stone fall away, though some clings to the skin. Of the entirely naked figure. It’s shorter than Porthos, but taller than Athos, skin thick and dry looking. 

 

“What do you want, sunshine child?” it asks. 

 

The Nymph, Athos remembers. It steps into the water and sits, sighing, leaning its head back. This one has hair, thick coils, oily. 

 

“You know there’s a Ghost here?” Porthos asks.

 

“Yes,” the Nymph says. 

 

“He wants to go home, Guardian,” Porthos says, crouching.

 

“Hmm. No. He killed my child,” the Nymph says, head coming up again. “My little soft human child. No, I think he’ll stay here a much longer time than this.”

 

“That’s a pretty good reason,” Athos says. “A humane kind of justice.”

 

“Tethering a spirit to this plane is hardly humane,” Porthos snaps. 

 

“You liked him, child?” The Nymph asks, shifting, water unsettled across the entire pond.

 

“Yeah, good enough,” Porthos says. 

 

“Got no zap from him?” The Nymph says, grinning, sly. 

 

Porthos bites his lip, and then straightens up, eyes distant. Athos takes his arm at the elbow. Porthos looks at Athos, then at the Nymph, then nods. 

 

“Alright. Alright, I got a bit of one,” Porthos says. “His life was violent. Nymphs know a lot about memory, right?”

 

“We do.”

 

“Then show me. If I let you show me why, and I still want him freed, you agree to talk. With him, and me as neutral facilitator,” Porthos says. 

 

“You’re not neutral,” the Nymph says. “No.”

 

“Treville. You know Treville? Everyone seems to,” Porthos says. “You talk with him?”

 

“Yes, with Treville I’ll do it. Okay, Sunshine, come here then.”

 

“Uh-uh, we do this on land, and Athos gets to hold onto me.”

 

“One of the other, not both,” the Nymph says. 

 

Porthos sighs, and walks into the water. Athos goes with him. They sink in up to their waists, then Porthos stop. The Nymph straightens, face to face with Porthos. 

 

“I am too old to have a name, but the mother of my beautiful child called me Hera,” the Nymph says. “Or you may keep calling me Guardian, if you wish.”

 

“I can’t bring your child back,” Porthos says, holding out his hand.

 

“No. Nothing can do that,” Hera says, sadly, also reaching out. 

 

Their hands meet, Porthos' calloused hand meeting hard, wood-like skin, fingers longer than his. The water moves again, rings chasing each other outward from them, over and over in ripples like a speaker playing too much bass. Athos wraps his arms around Porthos, holding him up in case he weakens, fortifying him. Porthos has done something to shield Athos, so he doesn’t feel anything. They stand, the three of them, for ten minutes before Porthos is released. He stumbles back, gasping, and brings his hand up to his mouth to cover a sob. 

 

“Porthos,” Athos says. 

 

“Yeah, yeah I’m okay,” Porthos says, covering his face and sniffing, choking back another sob. “I’m okay.”

 

“What do you say, Sunshine?” Hera asks. 

 

“He can stay chained here for a god-damned eternity for all I care,” Porthos says, shaking Athos away and sitting in the water. “Let him rot here.”

 

“That was my thought,” Hera says, smiling. 

 

“It was exactly your thought,” Athos says, playing a hunch. “That’s cheating. You have to let him decide, or it’s just manipulation. He’s fair, I promise.”

 

“Is that a promise you’d make to a Goblin, fragile?” Hera asks, turning on Athos, angry crackling. 

 

Athos feels the water pushing around him, and stumbles back. He’s forced up onto the shore, smelling of fish and duckshit. He sits, shuts his eyes, and reaches for Porthos, looking for the familiar shapes. Instead, he finds a cloud of moths, surrounding Porthos' shape, engulfing him. They’re not all his, Athos can tell. He finds the ones belonging to the Nymph and catches them gently, caging them in imaginary fingers. He lets them go at once, then opens his eyes. Porthos is back on his feet, shaking his head. 

 

“He ain’t so fragile as all that,” Porthos says. “He’s just short.”

 

“Hey!” Athos calls. 

 

“I still say he can stay chained here,” Porthos says. “If, **if** you still want that, after talking to him with Treville present. I’ll not get involved. But, Hera, Guardian, your child didn’t die. You lied.”

 

“I did not,” Hera says. “She is dead. He damaged her, and she died.”

 

“Humans age,” Porthos says. “She lived a full and happy life, for a human.”

 

“She should have lived longer, by my side. I could have kept her longer. I couldn’t heal the damage he did,” Hera says. “She died so young.”

 

“Everyone did, then. Thirty good years, that’s not too terrible.”

 

“He killed her.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, he did. He meant to. Your water’s full of more memory than your own, Hera. There’s a lot here, and some are his, and he did terrible, terrible things. He was a soldier, he followed orders, but he won’t be finding forgiveness from me. I’ll tell Treville you want to meet with him.”

 

Porthos wades out of the water, Hera at his back. The Nymph croaches over their stone, again, and blends with the background. A trickle of water, a small stream, joins the pond. Clear and fresh. Tears, Athos thinks. He wraps his arms around Porthos. 

 

“Hullo,” Porthos says. 

 

“That was good of you,” Athos says. “To let those memories in.”

 

“Thank you for breaking them emotions away,” Porthos says. 

 

“Of course. I’m not letting anyone mess with your head,” Athos says. “Home?”

 

“Town house. Treville’s probably there, he likes Ali. They’re still working on the Goblins.”

 

“You think they’ll come up with anything?”

 

“Yeah, maybe. I think the goblins are asking for sommat Treville and Ali don’t want on the table. So if worst comes to worst and we need to get d’Art out, we can,” Porthos says. “Now, tell me about that, what you did back there. That was real specific you got, on those emotions. Have you been practising?”

 

Athos tells Porthos about the butterflies, on the way back to the flat. Porthos comes up with a theory about precision, and Athos' mind working to hone the imagery of his Ability, to match it better with the precision he’s using. He wants Athos to practise more, and suggest a timetable. Athos wonders if he, like Aramis, could start napping in MU. Porthos always wants them to practise, and use their Ability. But really, the entire point of the Musketeers is to do as little work as possible. Unless it’s interesting. Which practising is not. Anyway, Athos likes watching the butterflies and moths. They’re around everyone, and as they drive to the town house, Athos watches them as they’re bundled and blown in whirling colours, all around him. 

  
  



End file.
